


Bitter Brine

by SaintEpithet



Series: Lovecraft meets Westeros - Dark Corners of the Known World [5]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Cthulhu Mythos - H. P. Lovecraft
Genre: Adventure, Arctic Horror, Beyond the Wall (ASoIaF), Book: The World of Ice and Fire, Don't copy to another site, Drowned God, Elsewhere Fic, Frozen Shore (ASoIaF), Gen, Horror, Ice-River Clans (ASoIaF), Ironborn Culture & Customs, Ironborn History, Ironborn Lore, Lovecraftian, M-rated for mentions of cannibalism, Maester (ASoIaF), Mystery, POV First Person, Seastone Chair, The Ironborn (ASoIaF), Unseen Westeros, Wildling Culture & Customs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:40:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22831912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaintEpithet/pseuds/SaintEpithet
Summary: Maester Otis is not thrilled when he learns that his first expedition as a maester will take him to the icy wildlands beyond the Wall instead of the Iron Islands. Yet in the lands of the terrifying ice-river clans also lie answers to ancient mysteries from distant shores. The final fate of Therron 'Bitterbrine' Farwynd will be revealed here; the Lost King of the Iron Islands who disappeared without a trace after wearing the Driftwood Crown for only five short years.
Series: Lovecraft meets Westeros - Dark Corners of the Known World [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1374721
Comments: 20
Kudos: 17





	1. Act I - Summer On Pyke

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JohnSpangler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JohnSpangler/gifts).



> Cannibalism is mentioned, so it has to be M-rated according to AO3's guidelines. There is no actual cannibalism in this story.

_I should have chosen platinum_ , I thought as another gust of wind whipped snow under my hood. Cooper perhaps, any link except the one forged from electrum. My research intersected with a variety of fields, and when the time came to forge my first link I was confronted with an almost impossible choice. Archmaester Kassan had made a strong case for platinum and the study of symbols, scriptures, and tongues, but he wasn't known to be a pleasant man to work with. The suggestion of cooper, standing for history and political matters, had been made by Maester Tristifer, and it had almost convinced me. However, Tristifer's current aspiration to be named the archmaester of his field made me think he paid too much attention to his own politics to be a good mentor. Archmaester Wabald advised me to forge my first link from green-golden electrum as all discplines it stood for touched upon my chosen field of study – the Iron Islands.

Wabald was a friendly and patient man, and during our conversations he always struck me as honest. "You might have to accept a few lesser assignments in the first years," he had said. "Geography may be less relevant to you than mapmaking and navigation, but none of these subjects should be neglected altogether. Once you're not so green behind the ears anymore, you'll select your own topic of research either way. It won't matter so much which link you forged first." Between Kassan's moody, sometimes outright rude demeanor and Tristifer's preoccupation with his campaign, I was certain to make the right choice with Wabald at the time. I had been prepared to take on unpleasant tasks, yet when the first assignment was given to me I almost felt lucky.

Maester Ellarian had fallen ill, I was told, and somebody had to take his place in the planned expedition. It concerned the customs of tribes in remote regions of the North first and foremost, however, it was also a chance to study the peculiar geography there. Ellarian had selected scribes and acolytes with relevant expertise, therefore I wouldn't have to worry much about the primary object of the mission. "A matter of completion," Wabald explained. "Little is known about these savage tribes or their habits. Yet the Conclave is aware of their presence, and knowing next to nothing about something that exists is a bother to them." Much of the geography beyond the Wall remained mysterious and uncharted, therefore I was delighted my first journey would take me there. I had dreaded the thought of a dull task far from any coasts, therefore the rivers of the mysterious North struck me as the lesser evil. Scouts, trackers, and heavers would join the expedition at Bear Island, an arrangement Ellarian had already made with House Mormont's maester. I had nothing to worry about indeed – until I landed on the Frozen Shore.

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

"Maester Otis!"

I still hadn't gotten used to my title, but I turned around when I heard it called nonetheless. It was Weldon who had addressed me, a scout from Bear Island. His stature and gruff voice almost comically lived up to his birthplace; a tall, broad-shouldered man who always sounded as if he had a bad cold.

"The hunters have found a promising trail along the Ice River," Weldon informed me when I joined his group by the fire. "Promising for your people anyway." He made no secret of his dislike for our mission, a notion most of the men from Bear Island shared.

"Believe me, I'd rather pursue my own studies," I assured him. "In recent years, many have theorized that Harlaw, Pyke, and Great Wyk were once fertile. You may not like the Iron Islands either, but had I gone there we'd both be spared from this insufferable weather."

"The cold ain't no bother." That was Burras; a short, burly trapper. His companions called him 'the lion' for his supposed golden shroud, though I only saw an unremarkable shade of ash blond under his hood. "It's the ice-river clans, the savages you came to study. We're about to enter the lands they inhabit. The last place on this earth a sane man would want to be." He sat down on a large boulder and turned the skewers over the fire, making sure the snow hares would roast evenly from all sides. "They won't be as welcoming as the walrus men or the caribou men on the Frozen Shore. Those ice-river clans, they're the true savages. They eat people. Did you know that?"

"I have heard about such customs," I admitted. There were many rumors about the remote peoples of the North; some outrageous, others mundane, none observed by scholars. "However, most of these claims were made by walrus men, and they are known to war against their northern neighbors. They might exaggerate to justify their quarrels and..."

"If you've heard such things, why do still want to go there?" It was a statement. Burras called my sanity into question, but he didn't truly expect an answer to that. "Aye, I know, your precious studies..." He looked up from the skewers, slightly shaking his head. "Do you maesters really have nothing better to do? Study flowers in the Reach! Some lady might be interested in the pretty colors. All you need to know about the savages is how to keep them away from your lands."

To be frank, I agreed with the scouts and their dislike of our mission. I hated the cold, I hated the wind, I hated the snow, and I hated the isolation. The prospect of observing and documenting man-eating rites didn't make things any better. But as appalling as the thought was, it was my first assignment as a maester. I could hardly turn around and tell the Conclave that I considered their task to be a waste of my time. Despite my personal dislike for the subject, I had to set an example for the acolytes and scribes. They were not far behind myself in their respective studies. Many would likely forge their first link upon our return to Oldtown, and we all wanted to remain in the favor of our mentors.

And so we marched on through ice and through snow, along the banks of the frozen river, into the uncharted expanse of eternal winter. Our sleds were well-stocked for our laborious journey, my companions were pleasant enough, yet the tristesse of the white landscape almost got to me more than once. White rivers, white hillscapes, white mountains, white ground, and above us the endless, grey monotony of the sky. Why, in the name of the Seven, did people chose to live here? The lands north of the Wall were sparsely populated. Certainly a more hospitable place could be found without angering neighboring tribes. Except for two encampments near the shore – one belonging to the caribou men, the other to their walrus-worshipping brethren – we hadn't come across any inhabitants of these wildlands.

Unfortunately, this lack of sightings extended to the tribes we were sent to observe. After almost seven weeks of travel along the Ice River we still hadn't located a settlement, though the scouts and trackers had finally picked up traces of life. In the foothills of a mountainous area Weldon had spotted the remains of several seals; slain by arrows, not the claws of wild beasts. Holes carved into the ice of the river and a nearby lake suggested somebody had been fishing, though the frequent snowfall made tracking the fisher's path impossible even for our seasoned scouts. However, we were confident that the savages would return here sooner or later. The lake was located in a small valley, surrounded by a fir grove, and we discovered that some of the trees had been cut; often a telltale sign of a nearby village. Furthermore, our own fishing efforts yielded an unexpectedly good catch, and it seemed unlikely such rich fishing grounds had been abandoned.

We made camp higher up in the mountains where tall cliffs sheltered a plateau from the worst winds. From the lake and the valley we couldn't be seen; Weldon and his scouts made sure of that for our safety. On the other hand, we had an excellent view from above and would be able to spot approaching savages from the distance. Once we knew the direction of their settlement we'd send scouts to learn about its size and population. Should it be deemed safe to approach, we'd try to make contact – without giving away the position of our own camp.

Almost a week passsed without further sightings. Stronger storms and heavier snowfall plagued the desolate landscape, therefore we rarely left the shelter the tall cliffs provided. The caribou men – who I considered a marginally more reliable source than the walrus men – had been certain that the ice-river clans were not truly nomadic. If a camp was attacked, they might erect the next one in a more secure location, but they'd stay close to the river banks, I was told. Halmat Wise Caribou Brother, the queerly named chieftain of the tribe, had drawn a crude map for us in exchange for a far-eye. According to him, the river branched off in two different directions, both of which led to entirely uncharted regions. Therefore, Weldon had deemed moving on too great of a risk, and I firmly agreed with his assessment.

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

It was the nadir of the fifth night in the mountains when our long, shivering wait on the plateau yielded results. I sat by the fire with one of the acolytes, Azaleo, and passed the tedium of the night watch shift with daydreams of more fulfilling studies.

"Geography has always been my passion," Azaleo said with a sigh. " _Coastal_ geography, island formations. The Broken Arm and the Stepstones, the sea stacks of Pyke. There's nothing I can learn from a frozen river."

I nodded in resigned agreement. There was nothing here for me either, and his words served as a painful reminder that it was summer on Pyke. Barren or not, the Iron Islands were by far more appealing than the shivering cold of the far, unexplored North. "Between you and me, I did not volunteer for this expedition either," I said. "I'd much rather pursue my own studies of Ironborn culture. Not much is written about the early history of the Islands, and unsolved mysteries of that kind tempt me. Once I get to plan my own expeditions I'll take you along. Get you closer to those curious sea stacks."

"Why's a Valeman like you giving a shit about the Iron Islands anyway?" the not-so-golden lion barged into our quiet conversation. "Don't give me that tired line about 'leaving your past behind' when you forged that shiny thing on your neck. Plenty of Vale boys in the Shadow Tower. I know the accent when I hear it."

Piqued, I glared up to him from under my hood. "And they, too, give up names and titles when they take their vows. It should not be such a foreign concept to you." I pulled the cloak tighter around my shoulders, though the night was windless and calm for once. "Is our shift over?" I then inquired as it certainly felt as if I had sat here for hours.

"Don't know," Burras gave back with an indifferent shrug. "But there's movement in the valley. Thought you'd want to know."


	2. Act II - Dark And Cruel Gods

We put out the fire in a hurry. Our camp was unlikely to be noticed in its hidden location, but we still did not want to take any risks. Even other tribes of the white wasteland feared the people we had come to observe, and we found it prudent to heed their warnings. Halmat Wise Caribou Brother had described the ice-river clans as 'worse than the walrus men'. In turn, the walrus chieftain - Tengat Long Tusk - had made the same comparison, saying the clans were 'even more terrible than the caribou men'. Neither tribe of the Frozen Shore had been particularly hostile toward us, but that the rivaling factions agreed about their remote northern neighbors was reason enough to practice caution.

"They don't burn their dead," Halmat had told me, visibly appalled by the notion. "They feast upon corpses, even those of their own kin."

"There are no heart trees by the rivers." Tengat Long Tusk had been just as disturbed as his rival chieftain when he spoke about the ice-river clans. "The Land of Always Winter belongs to dark and cruel gods."

Both had hinted at unspeakable rites; hideous practices neither of them dared describe. And yet here I was with my small expedition; tasked with recording these savage customs to satisfy the idle curiosity of old, southern men.

"Find my far-eye," I whispered to Azaleo. "And be quiet! Don't wake the others just yet. The noise would only increase the risk of being discovered." Hurriedly, the youth snuck to the tents, and I followed Burras to our outlook on the ledge. The rock formations were advantageous here, granting us an excellent view while hiding us from sight at the same time. Our cloaks, made of grey bear pelts, further helped us blend in with the terrain. Despite my confidence in our disguise I still held my breath when I peered down to the valley.

The shine of fire illuminated the night as a procession of forty, perhaps fifty figures emerged from the fir grove. Some carried torches, others weapons or fur-wrapped bundles, but I couldn't make out the precise nature of either from the distance. "There must be a cavern or tunnel somewhere in the forest," Burras whispered. "Probably leads out of the valley and connects with the pass beyond the steep ridges." I silently nodded and kept watching the figures, trying to memorize the scene I'd later have to describe in my records.

Though the full moon and their torches provided ample lighting, it was still hard to make out details. The figures were clad in several layers of fur and bleached leather, adorned with skulls and bones of various sizes. I couldn't tell whether there were men, women, or both in the valley as the queer attire made them all look the same. I'd have to look closer once Azaleo brought me the far-eye, I decided, and therefore only tried to commit their actions to memory for the moment. The group had gathered on the shore of the frozen lake, and a few had begun to chisel holes into the ice. Only the pounding of their axes echoed through the valley, making me aware of the eerie silence down there. Whatever they were doing, it apparently didn't require any communication. Nobody gave orders or instructions, nobody gestured. Those who did not chisel waited silently, motionlessly for the completion of the task.

Five holes had been cut, in no obvious pattern, and now the tribesmen carrying the unidentified bundles stepped out of the mass of silent spectators. There were five of them as well, and they placed their mysterious bundles on the icy ground. When they unwrapped them the eerie silence in the valley was broken. Faint cries echoed across the frozen lake and through the forest, and a moment later I saw them. Five babes, no older than a few weeks at most, lay on the furs they had been wrapped in.

"What are they doing?" I heard Burras mutter, disgust and disbelief in his voice. "Those babes will fall ill or die if they're exposed to the cold any longer! If nothing else, the savages should know how to take care of their own."

"An initiation rite, I presume," I calmly replied. "There is a similar custom on the Iron Islands. When a child is born a drowned priest wets the infant's head with salt water from the sea. They believe it bestows the Drowned God's favor upon the newborn. This tribe may do the same with ice water from the lake. A blessing meant to harden their children for life in eternal winter." I jumped at the tap on my shoulder, but immediate relief followed when Azaleo held the far-eye under my nose. "Cutting one hole for each child might be a matter of purity, or symbolize that each man must face the cold all alone," I continued my hushed explanation.

What I now saw through the lens of the far-eye confirmed my assumption. The babes had been picked up and were carried toward the holes in the ice. However, just one moment later my theory fell apart. My heart skipped a beat, Burras and Azaleo gasped in horror. The savages simply dropped the babes through the holes in the ice, let them sink into the freezing water of the lake! We were not witnessing an initiation of new members into their tribe. It was a sacrifice.

Captivated by the horrific realization we stared into the valley in disquiet silence; unable to move, unable to speak. Watched the fur-clad figures return to the shore, to the empty wrappings. Were the tribesmen as appalled by this ritual as we were, the scholar inside me wondered. I directed my far-eye to the nearest torch bearer, trying to make out the expression on his or her face.

Had I not been breathless already, my breath would have been taken by what I saw under the bushy, fur-lined hood. A man's face, old and rugged by winds and sea water. Two long scars running across it, as if an archer had marked his target to place a precise shot right between the man's eyes. Strands of greying black hair and the scruffy long beard of the same mishmash color, eyes as green as the western sea. Neither the layers of fur nor the years in his features could hide the man's true nature from me. I gasped in disbelief though I already knew the impossible to be true.

"Bitterbrine."

"What?" Azaleo and Burras woke from their motionless state at the same time, irritated by the single word I had muttered.

"Therron Farwynd," I whispered, still struggling to make sense of my discovery in the valley. "The 'Lost King', as scholars call him."

Burras grunted to himself, then tore the far-eye from my hand and peered through it. "Those savages all look the same," he concluded. "Maybe you _wish_ there was some reaver down there, so the journey would feel less like a waste of your time." He gave the far-eye up without protest when I took it back.

"The drowned priests destroyed most of his depictions," I began. "However, a few were saved from the purge and are now kept in the Citadel's archives. I have seen them many times." In the valley the tribesmen had left the banks of the lake, and I watched closely as they marched back into the forest. "The years were not kind to Therron Farwynd, but time cannot disguise him altogether. I'm certain it is him, the man who inspired me to become a maester."

"Why would an Ironborn king be here, so far from the sea?" Azaleo gestured for the far-eye. I let him have it for the moment, though there was not much left to see. "We're two months away from the nearest coast. Not even longships could travel this far up a frozen river." He paused, lowered the far-eye, and thoughtfully regarded me from the side. "And how would he inspire you if you never met him in person?"

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

"My uncle was a sailor," I explained once we had rekindled our fire and sat around it, mulling wine in a small iron kettle. "He told me about the Lost King when I was only a boy, and the mystery of his disappearance occupied my thoughts ever since. My uncle had just signed on as a ship boy when Therron Farwynd was crowned. People spoke of the dashing, young king in every port. During the kingsmoot great promises had been made. Bitterbrine said his ancestors had discovered lands in the west; fertile islands in the vast Sunset Sea he sought to conquer. Two years into reign he set out to claim these new shores and..." I paused and stirred the wine, and Burras took the chance to interject.

"And never came back from his fabled voyage. Isn't that how all the ironborn legends go? A raving lunatic sets out to reave and rape, and he's never heard from again because his ship turned out to be less sturdy than he thought?"

"He came back," I cut him off. "Three years later, the _Nagga's Wail_ returned to the shores of Old Wyk." I left the kettle to Azaleo who had fetched mugs from his tent, and pulled my cloak tighter together. "Though you are not entirely wrong," I then admitted, glancing to Burras. "Lunatics they were - if the rumors are to be believed. More than half of the crew had lost their lives, and those who came back alive lost their minds instead. All but the captain died by their own hand within a few weeks."

Azaleo filled the mugs, and the scent of spiced wine in the air grew stronger. "What happened to them on their voyage?" he asked. "And why didn't the same thing happen to their captain?"

"It probably did," Burras barked as he took his mug. "They just won't admit that their king took his own life because it makes them look weak."

"Possible," I conceded with some hesitation. "Some even say he went back to the west, to the islands his ancestors supposedly discovered. However, Maester Feryas – a man without ulterior motives – believes neither theory. He was studying the sea life in Ironman's Bay at the time, and witnessed the events after Bitterbrine's return first hand. I discussed them with him many times, and he is certain there is much more to the king's disappearance. A fortnight after Therron Farwynd's return his crown was found on the Seastone Chair, and the _Nagga's Wail_ had disappeared from the harbor. There was no note, no letter, and nobody had seen the ship leave in the night." I took the mug Azaleo held out to me and blew the delicious steam away before drinking a sip. "A search was launched immediately, but neither the _Nagga's Wail_ nor any trace of her captain were ever found. Maesters, poets, drowned priests, and of course House Farwynd are still searching for answers to the day."

"I haven't heard about this," Azaleo interjected. "It is not a subject I'd expect to come up in my field, but I attended some of Maester Feryas' lessons. He likes the sounds of his own voice quite a bit, therefore I find it surprising he never shared such an intriguing tale with his students."

"Maester Feryas shared his observations with me because he knew of my interest in the Iron Islands," I gave back. "Shortly after Bitterbrine's disappearance Vassion Sunderly was chosen as the new king, and he strongly discouraged the further search for his predecessor. Since his death a handful of scholars have taken a new interest in the matter, but it remains difficult to research due to the lack of new information. House Farwynd's power declined, no further voyages have been made to the west, and many witnesses of the original accounts were silenced under Vassion Sunderly's reign."

Burras sloshed his mulled wine around, warming his hands on the mug. "The Ironborn may not be the brightest, but this Sunderly lad had the right idea," he said. "Losing a king is embarrassing enough as it is, but finding him among savages who sacrifice their own kin is a whole different story."

"It is," I gave back, thoughtfully sipping from my mug. "A story that cannot be left untold or unheard. It is my duty as a scholar to find out what happened, why a king left his throne behind and went to the end of the world."


	3. Act III - The Bitter Taste Of Western Waters

"Aren't you maesters supposed to be smart?" Weldon and the scouts standing behind him stared at me in disbelief. I couldn't blame them for thinking I had lost my mind. My proposed course of action _did_ seem insane. Had one of them said the same thing to me only a few days before, I would have called him a madman as well.

"I am not asking you to go with me," I said, my tone calm and deliberate in hopes of easing the tension. "Nor you." I shot a glance to the acolytes and scribes, cowering by the tents. "I will go alone. If need be I will say my party left me behind as to not alert the tribesmen to your presence. You can observe from above, and I will not hold it against you if you leave at the first sign of danger." I paused and took a deep breath, then continued. "Even if it means you'll truly abandon me here, among savages and endless ice. I cannot leave without at least trying to uncover the truth. This might be the only chance to learn what happened to Therron Farwynd. It does not seem important to you, and I admit that it isn't. But I also know that I would regret not doing what I'm about to do for the rest of my life."

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

I also regretted my descend to the lake as soon as I heard my voice echo in the valley. What, in the name of the Seven, was I doing? Calling out for a lost king who had taken refuge with a savage clan that sacrificed their own children... Weldon was right. This was utter madness. And yet I had done it, and I did again.

"Bitterbrine! Therron Farwynd!"

This time I omitted the fact that I was unarmed, though I doubt it made any difference to the lost king or the ice-river clan. I was evidently alone on the shores of the lake. With or without a weapon, a maester with a single link to his chain was no threat to anyone who survived in these frozen wildlands. Admittedly, I had felt some measure of relief when my first shouts had received no answer, but my pride as a scholar refused to leave it at that. Therron Farwynd had been in his thirties when he disappeared, and several decades had passed ever since. Not even a hardy captain like him would live forever. There would not be another chance to find out what he had discovered beyond the western horizon, what had taken the sanity of his crew. His tale would be lost to the ravages of time; shrouded in mystery, buried under half-truths and legends. No, I could not leave. The truth was just out of arm's reach, hiding somewhere in the snowy mountains. If I didn't uncover it now, nobody ever would.

"Therron Farwynd! I only wish to speak to you! I have no hostile intentions!"

The fir trees rustled, shaking off snow and icycles from their branches, and I instinctively took a step back. _Closer to the icy grave of five infants._ I shuddered at the thought, but I kept my eyes on the movement in the forest. Somebody was coming to answer my calls, no doubt.

Despite age and hardship, he still looked imposing. Clad in several layers of fur and leather, he appeared bulkier and taller than he probably was underneath. A cloak patched together from various beasts dragged behind him; the white of snow bears and hares, the silvery brown of seals, the darker shades of grey wolves. Most disturbingly, his pauldrons appeared to be made from tanned skin as I spotted the stretched proportions of a human face on the left shoulder. He carried his infamous war axe, though the blades had been replaced with crude shards of black glass. Wild, shaggy hair stuck out from under his fur-lined hood; as stringy and greying as the long beard. His features were even more rugged than I had expected. Scars deep as canyons, gaunt cheeks, skin tough like leather. The most frightening detail of all, however, was the lack of madness in his sea-green eyes.

"Who tracked me down on the edge of the world?"

I had never heard his voice, never even met him in person, but it felt as if I recognized the timbre at once. Creaking like an old tree under the weight of its years, coarse like the sea wind, haunted like the deepest dungeon of a long abandoned castle ruin.

"Otis," I got out, still incredulous that the lost king stood in front of me. " _Maester_ Otis," I then hastily corrected, instinctively feeling for the chain on my chest.

"I don't know you." Bitterbrine took the axe off his shoulder, rammed its strange black blade into the snow, folded his hands over the handle. "And you're too young to know me," he added after scrutinizing my face for a while.

"I'm a scholar," I quickly explained. "My studies involve the history of the Iron Islands. This expedition..." I paused and took a deep breath to regain my composure. "One of my peers was supposed to lead it. His expertise concerns the customs of remote tribes of the North. However, he fell ill shortly before the planned departure, and I was assigned to take his place. A lucky coincidence, really, as only few maesters have seen depictions of you. Most of my peers would not have recognized..."

"Very lucky." Bitterbrine scoffed and spit into the snow. "If I wanted to be pestered by the likes of you, do you think I'd be here?"

"I suppose not." I stifled the urge to take another step back. "Though it bears the question... Why _are_ you here? This is not a place where you just happen to strand. The _Nagga's Wail_ was last seen in the port of..."

"She sunk near the Frozen Shore, in the Bay of Ice," Bitterbrine cut me off. "My own hand steered her against the sharp rocks. You got that right, maester. I did not 'strand'. Not even the crows ever ventured past Lorn Point, so I deliberately went even farther north. Away from the forsaken seas. Away from southern ignorance and deceit." He gave a brief nod to the hillside and scoffed again. "You do not belong here, you and your little party on that ledge... These are savage lands. They belong to savage people who don't avert their eyes from the primordial truths of the world."

It didn't surprise me that he knew where our camp was. The harsh reality of my situation had finally sunk in. We were out of our element; ingenuous visitors to a place wilder and older and more hostile than we could have ever imagined. Upon our departure from Oldtown, even Bear Island, we had considered the expedition to be well-prepared. But we had not made it here due to preparation, luck, or skill. We are alive because the peoples of these wildlands showed us a strange kind of mercy. They had decided to leave us be. They hadn't confronted us, hoping we'd leave after witnessing their cruel rite. Maybe a part of me had already accepted this truth when I had begun my descent into the valley.

"This is my first link." I fumbled to pull my chain out from under my coat and show Bitterbrine the lone link dangling on it. "Electrum. Navigation, map making, geography. I forged it because of you. Your tale sparked my interest in the Iron Islands; their customs, culture, and history." He didn't seem impressed by my words, but he regarded the cold metal in my hand nonetheless. "You are right. I do not belong here. I don't know a thing about the greater truths you apparently found. But there's a small truth here for me; one that has shaped my life and guided my choices. I have only my gratitude to offer in exchange for your story, and it probably means nothing to you, but perhaps..."

I broke off when Bitterbrine quietly chuckled; amusement or pity, I could not tell. "I, too, once sailed beyond the known horizons, " he said. "Searching for something I had heard of in legends, not knowing if it truly existed at all. And I, too, found a truth that had better been left undiscovered." He nodded over his shoulder to the edge of the forest. "Not a soul believed me when I returned, instead they called me insane. It won't be any different for you, should you make it back to your green, fertile lands. I can as well let you take that 'small truth' with you on your way to a cold grave."

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

A small campfire awaited us behind the first lines of trees. I assumed Bitterbrine had been watching me for a while from this place. There was a large boulder that had apparently served as seat, and next to it on the ground lay the remains of a laughably small meal. A bird of some sort that had probably been roasted, each tiny bone stripped perfectly clean of the little flesh it once held.

"You know of the claims my ancestors made." Bitterbrine sat down on his boulder and nodded to a snowed-coverered stack of timber I had not noticed at first. "Everyone knew what they said, only few believed them. Green shores in the west, fertile lands for my people to conquer and settle." He waited for me to brush the snow off the timber and sit down on the wonky stack. "I believed it. Of course I did. Ever since I was a boy my grandfather told me those stories. 'It is House Farwynd's prerogative to tame the vast beast known as the Sunset Sea!' he said. And this is what I told my people when I stood upon Nagga's Hill during the kingsmoot. They, too, believed it. At the time, there was little else to believe in."

I silently nodded, still trying to find a somewhat comfortable position on my wobbly seat. Therron Farwynd's predecessor was widely considered to be one of history's worst high kings; a misguided man who lacked foresight and vision. Years of ill-fated voyages and failed invasions of the mainland had culminated in his inglorious death when his own bastard brother had stabbed him in a tavern. The young, bold successor with big dreams of new shores inspired the people, gave them direction, rekindled their ambitions, promised great things – and put an end to the quarrels that had emerged during years of discontent.

"And what you believed turned out to be false?" I surmised. "You knew you couldn't keep your kingsmoot promise because there were no green islands in the west?"

Bitterbrine laughed, but the sound lacked any amusement. "There were islands, but green they were not." He poked the fire with the blade of his axe, then leaned the weapon against the nearest tree. "We had come across a number of islands in our year at sea. Most were much smaller than Saltcliffe or Blacktyde, but it was enough to gather supplies. Timber, fruit, once we found a colony of seabirds with plenty of eggs." He sighed and gestured to my seat, beckoning me to put more wood into the fire. "But the farther west we sailed, the more scarce and barren the islands became," he continued while I fed a handful of twigs to the flames. "Hadn't seen any land in weeks when my outlook finally spotted an 'archipelago' on the horizon. That's what he called it anyway. In truth it was more of a sandbank. Flat, bleak, partially flooded, no telling how far the shoal extended under the waves. We'd have changed course and sailed around it in a safe distance if it hadn't been for the oily black stones..."

"Black stones?" I echoed, but the lost king didn't need a prompt to go on.

"Have you ever seen the Seastone Chair?" There was scorn in his eyes, yet still no hint of madness. "This dreadful thing, carved from lies and deceit... But back then, I didn't know that. I thought destiny was within reach when I saw the ruins. A fractured piece of an enormous column, made from the same black stone as the cursed Liar's Chair. It had to be what my ancestors had seen!" He scoffed and rummaged around under his gruesome coat, then produced a waterskin which he opened with his yellow, crooked teeth. "My crew was ecstatic," he continued after taking a pull. "Our long, strenuous voyage had not been in vain. Their newly crowned king had not led them astray."

I coughed after taking a sip from the waterskin he had offered to me. Never before or after have I tasted something as repugnant as this bizarre brew; a blend of mosses, lichen, herbs, and fermented fish. "They didn't doubt you when the 'green shores' were merely a sandbank?" I got out, handing the waterskin back to the lost king.

"They did not a see a sandbank," he said, ignoring my apparent disgust with his swill. "They saw a promise kept against insurmountable odds. The column was a beacon my ancestors had left behind, that was their unanimous conclusion. The archipelago we were looking for couldn't be far, and the inscriptions in the ruins would show us the way."

"But they didn't?"

Bitterbrine nodded, gloom in his eyes. "They didn't."


	4. Act IV - The Liar's Chair

"The tales my ancestors told spoke of ancient times. Centuries had passed since these things supposedly happened." Bitterbrine took another swig from his brew. "The sea is a vast beast, moody and erratic, constantly shaping and changing the world. It carves new paths through rock and sand. Islands emerge and are swallowed again. We assumed we had reached the outermost islands of an archipelago, that the green shores were only a few days or weeks away."

"A reasonable assumption," I gave back. "Islands surrounded by shoals and shallow waters would necessitate a beacon or lighthouse. I'd have drawn the same conclusion from the presence of manmade debris."

Bitterbrine dismissively scoffed into his beard. The agreement of a landlubber meant nothing to him, but he didn't dwell on it. "We took a boat," he continued his story. "The _Nagga's Wail_ remained anchored at a safe distance." He seemed far away in his mind, perhaps trying to visualize the moment and recall all the details. "I remember Oren Pyke, the outlook, saying the eerie calm concerned him just before I climbed down to the dinghy. Not the slightest breeze, the taste of imminent thunder in the air... I knew what he meant, but I wasn't worried. 'It's been like this for days,' I told him. 'The storm waited this long. It will wait a day longer.'" Another pull from the waterskin, then Bitterbrine put it back under the layers of fur and leather. "The sandbank and its ruins weren't far from the ship. Had the storm come, we'd have noticed the first signs right away. We'd have had enough time to make it safely back to the _Nagga's Wail_." He paused and sighed to himself. "The storm never came, and not all of us made it back. Only two of the men in the dinghy did."

His description painted an eerie image in my mind. A thousand questions emerged, but I refrained from interrupting and let him continue.

"We soon found the water too shallow to row any closer, so we left one man behind with the boat." His hands rummaged around under the thick layers of fur, and this time they produced a leather bundle from a pouch. "Trudged through the murky water and mud, always wary for hidden currents or sudden declines." The bundle revealed a stack of seal blubber, something I had eaten during our stay with the carbiou men at the coast. I accepted when Bitterbrine wordlessly offered a piece, relieved it was something at least vaguely familiar. "We didn't speak. Looking back, we probably couldn't put our thoughts into words. The strange sense of forboding in the air and the water around us. The awe when we realized just how enormous the black column was. We hadn't seen another soul in almost a year, and maybe the remains of the structure reminded us how incredibly alone we were so far beyond known horizons."

"Almost a year..." I echoed, talking more to myself. No man had ever sailed that far to the west and returned. Regardless of outcome, Bitterbrine's feat was impressive.

He wasn't paying attention to me or the words I had muttered. "That cursed column... I have never seen anything like it before or after..." His gaze jumped to me; alert and piercing, not clouded by the fog of time for the moment. "I've seen giants. I know what I'm talking about when I say not even their kind could have carved it. Tall as a tower, cut from one piece of stone. Days are dreary in the western sea, but when I stood in front of the column..." The fog returned as his gaze drifted back through the years. "The stone devoured the light. I could feel its insatiable, unnatural hunger." He placed the blubber on a small rock between us without taking a piece for himself. "Didn't deter us from going closer, blinded by 'destiny' as we were... No, we had to read the inscriptions. Had to touch the queer, greasy surface." A storm above distant waters rose in his eyes, and a flood of contempt almost swallowed the following hoarse whisper. "Had to see those things, those terrible things..."

"You were able to read the inscriptions?" I blurted out. As harrowing as the recount was, I found it hard to stifle my excitement about this particular detail. "They were written in our script and our language? What did the text say? Was it written by your ancestors as you suspected?"

The lost king returned to the here and now for a moment, looking straight into my eyes as he answered. "Couldn't read a thing," he gave back with an air of irritation. "No, what I have seen was not written on the black stone..." He lazily lifted his arm, pointed to his temple. "Here. That's where I've seen it. The ghastly truth I can never unsee, never unknow." He wheezed as if the slight motion had been exhausting, then reached for the waterskin under his coat. "Gabrion and Islan must have seen it as well, but I cannot say for certain. Islan, he pulled his dagger and cut his own throat right then and there. One hand on the hilt, the other still resting on the column." After a swig he offered the dreadful brew to me, but this time I had the wits to decline. "Gabrion was screaming without making a sound. That's the only way I can explain it. A grimace of terror and pain, mouth open wide, yet nothing came out. He wouldn't move either, just stood there like a statue..."

The gruesome description made me choke on my words, and nothing came of my attempt to inquire further.

"Fannar Far-Eye and Bogon had gone around the column." Bitterbrine placed the waterskin next to the blubber, and his gaze got lost in the flames of the meager fire. "Found their corpses in the shallow water, surrounded by blood. Could be they took their own lives. Could be they killed each other. I'll never know." His voice was absent, almost indifferent, though he didn't try to hide that the memory moved him. "Don't know how I made it back to the boat either. I reckon Gabrion dragged me there or I dragged him. Whichever it was, it didn't matter. He went overboard before we reached the _Nagga's Wail_. Deliberately drowned himself. At least that's what Daric told me, and I had no reason to doubt it. In the following days half the crew did the same." He lifted his head, but although our eyes met his gaze went through me as if I was air. "The voices told them to do it, they said. I still hear their screams, their deranged babble and haunted whispers..."

"What have you seen?" I urgently inquired. "What made you give up your crown and your people?"

The fog cleared from his eyes almost in an instant, and it felt as if he was staring right into my soul. "The terrible truth that slumbers beneath western waves. The great lie." He took a deep breath, then exhaled little clouds from the depths of his lungs. "I gazed back through time when I touched the black column. Back to the moment when the Drowned God doomed us." Another pause, another deep breath. "Or perhaps I should say 'when we doomed ourselves'."

"We?" I echoed, not sure I followed his story. "You think something your crew did sparked the madness?"

"No." Bitterbrine's voice was firm and foreboding. "We, the people of the Iron Islands. We who foolishly pray to a god that tricked us. I saw ancient days; when the shores of our home were still green and fertile. I saw our harvests destroyed by the wrath of the storm god. I saw the pact we made, thinking it would be our salvation. 'Pledge yourselves to me,' the dark god of the sea demanded. 'Strengthen me with your faith, and I will ensure your harvests will never be ravaged again!'" The sanity was swept away from his eyes the longer he spoke, and in its place an oddly calm kind of madness surfaced.

"A pact...?" I quietly muttered to myself, trying to make sense of this fantastical tale.

"And he kept his promise!" the lost king cried out. "He kept his promise!" His laughter echoed in the valley; unhinged and desperate at the same time. "He gave us the cursed chair." The words were a whisper now, the rushing of a distant ocean. "Made us kings to rule all of the world's waters, bound us to his forsaken domain..." A mad giggle followed, tears froze on the scarred skin of his cheeks. "And we believed his lies... We believed he had blessed us! Our soil was now cursed and barren, and our hopes and prayers were all we had left to give... A promise kept in the most twisted way! There would never be another harvest again, nothing the storm god could take from us... Yet we didn't realize what sacrifice we had made. We believed to be favored. Believed the great, terrible lie of a selfish god." He glowered at me as if he expected an answer, but continued to speak before I had sorted my thoughts. "This is the truth. This is what the oily, black column showed me. This is why I couldn't stay on the cursed islands, couldn't live among the ignorance and the arrogance and the disbelief anymore, couldn't sit on the liar's chair that sealed our demise." He abruptly got up from his boulder, grabbed the waterskin, then shouldered his axe. "Out here, we understand that gods are not be worshipped. We distract them with sacrifices, soothe them with rituals, divert their attention - but we never pray. Indifference is the only true blessing gods can bestow upon mortal men. And this is the only lesson I can teach you, scholar."

﴾ _____________________________________________________________________________________ ﴿

Confused and disturbed, I returned to the camp, long after the lost king had disappeared into the snowy forest. Had I really risked my life to listen to a madman's ramblings? The tale simply struck me as too fantastical, too absurd, yet I couldn't help thinking there might be a kernel of truth in it either. Perhaps there was a sunken land in the west, and the king – realizing the promise to his people had been broken - had turned it into a sinister, mad place in his mind. Maybe he couldn't bear the shame of returning home empty-handed. Maybe the years in isolation had jumbled his memories. Maybe he had told this strange lie to himself for so long that he finally came to believe it.

I didn't tell my party what had truly transpired. Of course, Weldon and the acolytes had observed the conversation by the lake. They had seen me follow a fur-clad savage into the small forest, and emerge again unscathed a while later. I had to tell them something, and I chose to concede that the risk I took hadn't been worth it. There was no telling whether Bitterbrine had lost his mind on the fabled voyage or after leaving the Iron Islands, I said, but I had no doubt that he was as insane as any man could ever be. "There was no spark of recognition in his eyes when I called him by his name," I claimed. "None of the other tribesmen understood my language. That is the sole reason he came when I called. He didn't remember the names or places I mentioned, and kept asking why I thought of him as a king. Since I had no proof for my claim and couldn't offer an explanation how he had wound up at the end of the world either, he called me a liar and told me to get lost."

The acolytes agreed to omit my encounter in the valley from the records. The foolish risk I had taken would reflect unfavorably on the expedition, and nobody wanted to tarnish their good standing with the mentors in the Citadel. We wrote our reports about the rite we had observed, mentioned our stay with the tribes of the Frozen Shore, and left it at that.

Yet some days, when I watch ships depart from the port of Oldtown, I wonder what truly lies at the end of the western sky. Try to reconcile the sudden change in Therron Farwynd's demeanor with a rational explanation. Had the madness been there all along and I just hadn't seen it? Was the terrible tale true, had he clung to the last shreds of sanity in hopes of convincing me to believe him? And whenever I ponder these questions for too long, I hear the lost king's voice whisper in the back of my mind. "Indifference," he says, "the only true blessing." And I turn away, return to my comfortable chambers, disperse dangerous contemplations in the archives. Let sleeping gods lie beneath the black waves, undisturbed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure when I'll be back with the next entry in this series or which one it will be. Probably June, probably 'The Lost Colony Of Silverspear', but no promises. 
> 
> Life Pro Tip: Don't try to find a new apartment during a pandemic. It sucks.


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